


In Which Jean's Not a Complete Idiot (But Marco Is)

by karkatsthong, youreyestheyglow



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, because jean shouldn't always be the oblivious one, reverse jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:31:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karkatsthong/pseuds/karkatsthong, https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean knows he's gay and he definitely knows he's gay for the freckled French exchange student. Marco thinks he's as straight as an erect dick. Antics ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who's the Hottie with a Bodty

**Author's Note:**

> all the odd numbered chapters/jean's chapters are written by karkatsthong. all the even numbered chapters/marco's chapters are written by youreyestheyglow.
> 
> **Update:** This fic is currently on hiatus, due to my cowriter's busy schedule and limited computer access. I promise it **hasn't been abandoned.** That being said, I don't know when it's going to be updated, but it won't be for a good couple weeks at the absolute earliest - my cowriter is at a con, and it's her chapter. Before you ask: no, I can't just finish it for her. I can't imitate her style at all, and if I tried, the chapter would likely end up choppy and awkward. For these reasons, I **strongly suggest that you subscribe to this fic.** You'll get an email when it updates, so you won't have to constantly check back or worry about missing it. Thank you for being such great readers, I'm sorry for the wait!

_"Jean Kirschtien, if you don't get your ass out of bed this instant, I swear on everything that is holy-"_

A muffled groan escapes your lips. You kick at the twisted sheets around your legs until they slip off the bed completely, leaving you vulnerable to the cold chill of the upstairs’ AC. The North Pole doesn't have shit on your bedroom.

In that moment, the universe throws up its middle finger and directs the sunrise right through your goddamned window. Great, now it's burning a hole into your eyes and you’re probably going to die from vitamin D overdose. Another stream of curses echoes from the other side of the door and you bury your face into the pillow, smothering your own profane response. 

"Don't make me come in there! I don't care if you're naked; I've changed your diapers more times than any mother should have to. Now wake up! You're going to be late!"

You let out a cry in defeat. The mere thought of going back to school makes you nauseated.

"Ma, I can't! I'm sick."

“What is it this time?!”

With an over-exaggerated fit of coughs, drawn out to nearly the length of a James Cameron movie, you choke out, "Probably an STD"

There’s a break of silence that permeates the thick wooden door. What the hell is she doing now?  Did she leave? Or maybe she’s just trying to think of a smartass comeback.

Please be the first option.

“Who’d you get it from? Your right hand?”

She pushes her way in, through the dense piles of dirty laundry and video games. The floors aren’t recognizable anymore. In fact, you can’t remember if they were carpeted or hardwood. Eventually the endless pairs of socks and plaid flannels that were thrown across the room accumulated into a lump like some sort of floor tumor. You honestly wouldn't be surprised if it was cancerous.

“Horny teenagers…” She mutters under her breath, shuffling around in her attempts to make your room look even slightly decent. Which you both know is impossible.

“I don’t think masturbation is really an appropriate topic for mother-son bonding.” You kick your feet over the edge of the mattress and arch backwards, joints cracking and popping. “And if you want me to go to school, you should maybe, I dunno, _leave_ so I can actually get  _dressed_.” 

She feigns offense, holding her hands up in such a distressed manner it’s almost convincing. Key word: almost. “Oh but it’s the first day of your senior year!” Wow, you could kill a bear with the amount of sarcasm that drips from her voice. “Shouldn’t your mommy be the one to dress you for your big day?”

You can’t wait to put this woman in a nursing home.

“Thanks Ma, but I’d rather not repeat my freshman year again.”

After an insane amount of whining and begging (more than you’d ever admit to), she finally leaves you alone in your man-cave. One of the cleaner pair of jeans you own miraculously finds its way to the top of the laundry basket, and you silently thank whatever god that decided to make your life only slightly hellish today. After throwing on some clothes and smoothing out your hair a bit, you’re ready to roll. You practically bounce out of the door, waving off the rabid mom with a free hand. She throws you a bag of what you presume is food. You really hope it’s food.

"Hey Judy, baby." Voice dropping to a purr, you reach out and pat the cherry red hood of your 1969 Pontiac Judge. She's beautiful. With a 502 HO Crate engine, rear exhaust pipes, and kickin' stereo system that you installed yourself, she's your most prized possession. You named her Judge Judy, after your favorite daytime television star, whose passion runs as deep as the leather interior of her vehicle counterpart.

Two years worth of wages spent on this hot piece of car; most of which came from some divorced lady down the street. Her pool apparently needed ‘cleaning’ twice a week, even though you haven’t seen one soul enter that water since her husband left. Still, you gotta appreciate the cougars of the suburban world.

The thought of going back to the chaotic highschool parking lot makes you wince subconsciously. Not one person in this town would know how to park if their life depended on it, and damn it if you’ll let another jackass scratch the Baby’s precious custom paintjob. 

 

* * *

 

 

Thank your lucky stars for faculty member parking spots.

The school building looks almost empty when you crash through the front doors. A couple of teachers throw you dirty looks, sipping their dishwasher-water coffee pretentiously.

_Please choke, please choke, please choke._

Shame you can't stay long enough to witness if they do.

 You slump down into one of the more comfortable chairs the library has to offer and toss your head back, allowing your eyes to wonder. There’re a few others, mostly seniors, and like you, don’t give an honest-to-God shit about being on time. You’re scanning over the drained expressions of fellow near-death peers, until a slight movement draws your attention to the corner of the room. 

Oh  _wow._

_Hel-lo new kid._

Dark brown locks parted down the middle, bringing out the flecks of gold in his chocolate eyes. Freckles adorn his skin like those constellations you’ve never bothered to look up, but you wouldn’t mind learning about  _his_ stars. Before you realize it, you’re staring at him; chin in hand, head tilted, lips parted and stuck wondering just how far those freckles go. He’s alone, completely immersed in a book bigger than most dictionaries. A small pout pulls at the corner of his lips and his brows furrow in irritation.

“Who you got your eye on, Jeannie?

“Con!”

He’s got that big shit-eating grin plastered on his face, and you can’t help but slip a smile in return. Connie’s good at making everyone smile.

“What’ve you been doing with your life?” He pulls you into a hug, crushing the air from your lungs. You notice he’s wearing his team jersey and sigh inwardly. It’s probably the only shirt he owns.

"You do know the season's not for a couple months, right?”

Connie scoffs, shrugging you off. “Didn’t you hear? We’re starting all _hells_  of early. Coach Levi’s practically had a stick up our asses all summer, screaming at us to keep practicing. It’s probably illegal, but you know Coach is hell bent on defeating the Titans-“

You groan, stringing your fingers through loose strands of sandy hair. Man, fuck the Titans. Their team is made up of the most repulsive, disgusting cock jockeys you’ve ever met.

Okay, well it’s mostly the main pitcher, Eren Jaeger, who really gets your piss engine going. He’s a traitor and has an attitude worthy of an inbred cat that’s just had his balls removed. Ever since he left Trost High for that trashy academy in district Maria, you’ve sworn to swing him and his cheap throws out of the ballpark.

“Is that shitfaced back-stabber still playing?”

“Still not over him yet?”

“Like hell I am.”

“Jesus, Jean,” He sighs, and you know you’re about to be pulled neck deep into another one of his many [lengthy] lectures, “When are you going to let it go? He’s in another school now, on another team. Mikasa and Armin are fine with it, why can’t you-“

His words drone out into a hum, and you find your eyes drifting elsewhere; back to the new kid, who is now tapping his fingers restlessly against the tabletop. His nose scrunches up in worry and all the freckles cluster together in a way that should not be as adorable as it is.

“-finally going to make up and be friends like normal people do?”

He shifts his gaze impatiently, waiting for you to do something other than stare.

“Hey Connie…”

“What?”

“Who’s freckles over there?”

He doesn’t waste a second, whipping around to stare wide-eyed and unashamed.

“You mean him?” Connie blurts. Rather _loudly._ The poor guy stiffens, sneaking an uneasy glance in our direction.

_As eloquent as ever._

“That’s Marco Bodt. Some French transfer student, I think. He’s actually staying at Sasha’s place; dude’ll never get enough to eat –”

“French, huh…”

He catches your eye, frowning. “Don’t scare him off with your creeper attitude, alright?

You smirk deviously, tilting your head to the side.

“Oh, but that’s just part of my charm.”


	2. Je Te Comprend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco meets Jean and makes a friend.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

That was what Sasha had said, this morning. Repeatedly.

So that’s what you did. You took a deep breath.

“In and out, in and out. That’s it. You’ve got it. Keep doing that. You’ll be fine.” And then she had pushed open the classroom door, said something very fast and very loud to a teacher who looked excited to see her, waved at the boy who had visited five times since you had arrived last week, and left.

“Welcome to English Literature,” the prof – no, _teacher_ – says slowly.

You smile shakily and extend your hand. He takes it and shakes.

“Marco, you can pick whichever free seat –”

“Marco!” The boy yells. Connie. Il s’appelle – no, _his name is_ – Connie. You remember now. “Marco, sit here!” He jabs a finger at the free seat next to him.

He’s very loud. You’re absolutely sure that if you sit next to him you will not learn very well. Also, you saw him this morning, standing next to the boy with the interesting hair and looking at you.

You sit next to him anyway. You know that your grades this year will not count back in France. You should use your year to make friends and learn how to speak English like an American. He comes to Sasha’s house very often, also, and you do not want to offend him.

He slaps you on the shoulder, opens his mouth, and says something very, very fast.

Your face falls. “What did you say?” How are you going to learn this language? You thought you were good at it, at home – one of the best in your class. You’d even managed to decipher Sasha’s illegible handwriting, when she’d written you a letter to say hello. You’d been confident when you stepped on the plane, all the way up until the moment you got off the plane and were surrounded by this language, this harsh language that has no logic or sense to it. People here speak it so quickly, you can’t follow it, and they push their words together like they have taken the alcohol.

“Oh! Sorry, Marco. I said, watwre you reading this morning? Ewas really big!”

Oh, no, he’s speaking slowly, and you still don’t – oh. _What were._ What were you reading this morning? You don’t know what he said after that. Really big? What was really big? What’s an _ewas_?

“Connie,” the teacher says sharply. “If you’re gon nadistract Marco, you cansit byim.”

None of this makes sense.

Tu veux ta mère, tu veux Français et – no. No. You have to think in English, or you will never learn it. Your mother is not here and no one speaks French and whether you want it or not you will not get it.

The class makes no sense.

They discuss Shakespeare – a name you recognize – but the play, you do not know, and it was hard enough in French, you don’t understand any of it in English.

Connie is useless. He seems to be just as confused as you are.

The bell shrieks, and you can’t decide if you’re happy to be out of class or terrified of the bell. You put your book in your bag, deciding that relief is overcoming fear.

“Marco! Youshood totally sitwithus at lunch!” Connie exclaims.

You stare at him for a moment. _Youshood = you should. Sitwithus = si twith us. No. Sit with us. You should sit with us at lunch._ Right. “Oh! Um, if you don’t have a problem with me!” Lunch should be better than class. Your stomach makes angry noises as you think of mashed potatoes and chicken. The clinking of utensils against plates should cover most conversation, and if you’re eating you can’t talk. It’s perfect.

“Fukno, I don’ava problem withyou!”

He grins and slaps you on the shoulder again. He said yes, you think.

 _Don’ava = don’t have a._ Oh. That makes sense. And _withyou = with you_. Fukno I don’t have a problem with you.

“Connie?”

“Whadzup?”

That word wasn’t in the dictionary you were reading earlier either. “What is a ‘fukno’?”

“Whaddyou – oh!” He bursts out laughing, his laughter somehow managing to be louder than all the students in the crowded hallway.

English swirls around you, slurred harsh speech patterns that form one big mush that you can’t make sense of.

Finally, Connie stops laughing. “It’s nothing. It’s not a thing.” He’s speaking a little slower now, thank god. “Two words. Fuck. No.”

“Fuck no,” you say experimentally.

He snorts. “You’re doing somethingweird with your yous.”

No, no, two words: _something weird._ “My me’s?”

“Your – oh. No. _Yous_. Like. The letter. In the alphabet. Aybeeceedeeeeeffgee… you. Tee you vee.”

What is he – oh. _Oh._ _U_. The letter. Your u’s. “My u’s sound weird?” Your teacher always said you had one of the best accents in the class!

“Yeah, dood. Noddina bad way. I’zounds cool. French.”

French? What about – oh, no, no – _noddina = not in a_ and _I’zounds = it sounds_. _Not in a bad way. It sounds cool. French._

“What is a dood?”

“A – uh. A. A cool guy? Buddwith girl stew?”

“Girl stew?” You squeak out. People eat girls here? Is that slang for something? Not human girls, right?

“Yeah, girl stew!”

Your mouth drops open.

He laughs. “What, are you against gender equality?”

A few moments later, you grasp the meaning of _equality_ and realize what he said. “Boy stew?” Your voice is definitely higher now. No one told you they ate people here! Oh god, what if they have girl stew or boy stew for lunch? That isn’t something they would do here, right? There has to be a misunderstanding!

“Yeah, girls and boy stew. It’s nothat bigga deal.”

_Mère, j’ai besoin de toi._

Finally, you make it to the cafeteria, and Sasha finds you within just seconds. “Marco! Connie!” She kisses Connie’s cheek and says something about a table over there. “I’m going to take Marco to get lunch,” she says, much more slowly.

You smile weakly at Sasha. Maybe she will explain girl stew to you.

She brings you to the back of the big line. “My mom already set up your account. Do you have your student eye-dee number?”

 _Eye-dee = ID._ Right. “Yes. Sasha?”

“What’s up?”

“What is girl stew?”

She looks at you like you just said you hate food. “Girl stew?”

You nod. “And boy stew.”

“I have no idea. Wherdyou hear that?”

 _Wherdyou = where’d you_. “Connie. He said a dood was a cool guy and girl stew.”

Understanding dawns on her face and she grins. “No. A cool guy, and girls, too. Girls, also. Girls, as well. Cool people _in general_.”

Oh. “Oh.”

That makes sense.

You want to smack yourself. It was such a stupid idea. Americans eat normal food just like everyone else.

The line moves forward and Sasha grabs a tray and hands it to you. “I already gohmy food.” _No. Not gohmy, got my._ “But here, look, there’s macaroni and cheese and french fries and…”

Oh god. They don’t eat normal food. They do not eat normal food. That cheese looks diseased. Why do they call frites “French fries”? They are not French, they come from Belgium. And they look disgusting.

“Do you want a cheeseburger? Those are good here –”

No. The cheese is probably equally as diseased as the cheese in the pasta.

You end up with the least offensive thing you can find – a round piece of bread with a hole in the center that Sasha calls a bagel. It is not a lunch, but it will have to be enough until you get home. “Is it possible for me to bring in my own lunch?” You ask Sasha after giving the lady your student ID number.

Sasha nods. “Yeah, why?”

“Well, the food here does not look very good.”

Sasha frowns thoughtfully as she leads you back to the table. “Really? I always thought it was delicious!”

You think about the things she eats at home – cheese that comes from plastic and bread that is not warm or good and large portions of food that is not very well made, not to be mean to her mother of course – and you _can’t possibly imagine_ why she’d think such a thing.

Americans are cavemen.

Your stomach does something strange when you see Connie at a table with the boy of the strange hair from that morning.

“Are we sitting with Connie?”

“Of course!” Sasha says happily.

You’re not surprised. You just – don’t want to sit with the boy who was looking at you this morning. But clearly, he is one of Sasha’s friends, so you don’t say anything.

“Marco!” Connie yells as you get close.

The boy of the strange hair twists around to see you. Why is he staring at you?

Sasha points at a girl with short dark hair. “This is Mikasa.” She points at a boy with blond hair. “This is Armin.” She points at the boy with strange hair. “This is Jean.”

Jean? “Jean!” Jean! “Parle-tu Français ?” You can hear the excitement in your voice. Perhaps he was staring at you because he knew you were French! You could speak French to him!

His mouth drops open a little. “Uh. You just asked me if I speak French, right?”

He speaks slowly. He must understand that you have problems when people speak quickly.

But he does not speak in French.

“Ah. Yes. I did. You do not speak French.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Sorry.”

You sit down next to him. Maybe he doesn’t speak French, but his name is beautiful – the soft J, the long vowels, the quiet N. _Jean_. _Jshaahn_. You speak the name in your head. French. “That is too bad.”

He smiles at you, but it is not a nice smile – it is not a mean smile, either. It is a smile of the mouth that makes the eyes look like they are planning something. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have learned it.”

You smile at him. “That is very nice of you.” Maybe he was not staring at you to be mean. Maybe he is just a strange person.

“Why do you just have a bagel for lunch, Marco?” Asks Armin. He looks worried about you.

“I –” Your face reddens. What if this is the best food Americans have? Will you offend them?

Mikasa inhales through her nose sharply, making a noise like a horse. “Can you blame him? The food here is disgusting.”

You release your breath. “Yes. In France, we have a large meal for lunch, and it is very good. The food here is – not good. Disgusting? That is a word for bad?” Mikasa nods. “Yes. The food here is disgusting. The cheese –” you make a face at the cheeseburger that Sasha is happily chewing. “That would not be considered cheese, at home. The meat does not look like meat. This all looks like bad food.”

“Well, Sasha likes food. She’ll make sure you get _plenty_.” Jean smiles widely at Sasha, who looks sad.

“It’s _my_ food,” she says quietly.

You sigh. She does like her food. You do not want to take it from her.

You take the plastic wrapping off of your bagel. How can you put butter on this? There is no place for – oh. It pulls apart like it has been cut open. “Does the butter go in here?” You ask Sasha.

“Dude, have you never eaten a bagel before?” Jean asks.

You shake your head. “We don’t have them in France. It is a very strange way to bake bread.”

Jean’s mouth falls open.

Connie laughs. “You’ve got sucha big mouth!”

Jean lifts up his eyebrows and drops them. “Big things have to fit in there.”

Mikasa rolls her eyes. Connie just laughs harder.

“Do you like big sandwiches?” You ask.

Connie laughs so hard he has to put his head on the table.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“What do you like in your sandwiches? How big can they get?” You ask. The biggest sandwiches you have ever seen have fit perfectly fine in a small mouth.

“Lots of meat and mayo.”

Connie’s face turns red and he laughs so hard he stops making noise.

Jean looks a little like a devil.

There must be something you are missing. Armin looks very uncomfortable.

You decide not to ask any more questions.

You open the little pack of butter. It does not look like real butter. “I cannot believe this is butter.”

Jean does the horse-like inhaling thing that Mikasa did. “Believe it.”

“What is that called?” You demonstrate the horse inhale.

“Snorting?” Sasha says.

You do it again. “That is a snort?”

Everyone nods. “Thank you. I’m sorry I do not know many vocabulary words yet. Thank you for helping me.” You hope your thankfulness comes across – you smile your brightest smile at them and hope they understand.

They do. They all smile at you and say “It’s fine!” and “Don’t worry about it!” and even Mikasa smiles a little at you. Jean pats you on the back. “Don’t worry, dude. I got you.”

You frown. “You got me? What does that mean?”

“Um. It means. I understand you? And also maybe I’m here if you need help?” Jean looks very confused. His eyebrows pull together more with every word he says.

His hand is still on your back. In his confusion he must have forgotten to remove it. You don’t mind. It’s warm and comforting.

“Jeannie, gonna stop touching the Frenchie?” Connie says with a grin.

Jean frowns and looks at his hand like he forgot it was there. He smiles at Connie, but it is another one of the nice-mean smiles that he did before. He slides his hand across your back to the bottom of your neck. His voice drops when he says “Nope.”

Something strange pools in the bottom of your stomach. It must be fear. He sounds – he sounds like he wants to eat you. You must be afraid.

But even though his fingers are still against your skin and he is still staring at Connie like he is saying something mean, you do not mind. You are not scared.

The strange feeling in your stomach stays, even when Jean laughs and takes his hand away.

You put some of the butter on your bagel and take a bite.

Oh. “Oh.” Oh.

“Oh?” Jean says. “Is that a good oh?”

You stare at the bagel. “Yes. Yes, it is definitely a good oh.”

“So it tastes good?” He asks.

“Yes. Yes, it tastes _very_ good.” You take another bite. It is just bread, it should not taste this good, but it does. You lick the butter off your lips. The butter is not as good as it could be, but even Americans cannot ruin butter.

Jean’s face is a little red. “Are you hot?” You ask curiously.

“What?” He asks.

“You look a little warm,” you explain. Is there a different word, maybe? Your schoolbooks did not always get the vocabulary words right.

“I – oh.” He laughs, but he does not sound amused. “Yeah.”

Connie laughs. He laughs a lot. Mikasa usually looks a little – well – she looks like you did when you saw the macaroni and cheese.

“Yeah, I am a little warm.” He leans forward and puts his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand. “So you like bagels, huh. Is there anything else you’ve had since you got here that you didn’t have in France?”

Jean is nice, you decide at the end of lunch. He does not ask you the same questions everyone else asks you. He asks you interesting questions – does everyone in France wear scarves, is the bread there better than the bread here, has America surprised you yet, do you miss speaking French. When you say yes to the last one, he blinks one eye at you and says “I’ll have to invite you over my house sometime, then. My parents both speak French. You’ll like it.” He always speaks slowly. You understand what he says.

Yes, you would like to be friends with Jean, the boy with the strange hair. You would like to sit with him again, tomorrow.

You have made a real friend here, you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of the French is wrong, please tell me and I'll correct it! I'm going off only a few years of French here, so I doubt it'll be perfect.   
> And no, they don't have bagels in France. For real.


	3. Really Quite Important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean cannot deal with the new French kid.  
> But he wants to.  
> He really wants to.

Thank the Good Lord for Connie Springer: The greatest bro alive.

He’s the Pedro to your Napoleon, the Ted to your Barney, the Goose to your Maverick. The ever-important sidekick in this crazy endeavor to find love.

Or dick.

And the best part, he doesn't even know what he did.

The moment Connie sat down with you and blurted something about asking the new kid to sit with you guys, you knew that he was the one. Your wingman.

Classes were particularly more boring than you remembered. It was harder to focus on the teacher’s droning words when your own mind had wandered off to Marco.

His squared jaw line, the way his hair parts in the middle, his eyes that shine bright like in that Rihanna song. And his  _voice_. Christ, you thought yours was hot, but God fucking  _damn_ French accents are miraculous.

You wonder what he’d sound like in bed. Whispering dirty things in your ear, crying out when you touch him in all the right places…

Wow. You are actually a huge creep.

Stop fantasizing about people you just met.

                                                                           

Connie stops you in the hall after class, a little more winded than usual.

“Man, you’ve got enough sweat to match that Bert kid from Maria-“

“No time for bullshit, Levi’s got me running everywhere to find the team.” He cuts you off. “And if I don't get back with everyone he’s gonna shove a bat so far up my ass that I’ll get splinters in my throat.”

Yeah, that sounds like him.

You take a deep breath. Missing one meet was bad enough, but the entire  _summer_  was a whole other ballgame. You’ve been dreading this moment for months. Confronting the notorious Coach Levi, who’s been kicked off of six Major League teams, is definitely not on your list of things to do before you die. And if it’s up to him, then that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

_Give Marco my love and my nudes._

“No bullshit, huh.” You sigh in defeat. Shame that bullshit just happens to be your area of expertise.

“Nope.” Connie shoves a uniform into your hands, “Now get goin’ before he kills the both of us.

*****

**  
  
**

The sun beats down like a drum. Sweat drips off the back of your neck and onto the dusty plate beneath. The metal bat in your hands slips precariously, burning already calloused fingers.

“Hey batter, batter.”

You spit at the pitcher’s feet.

“What’re ya waitin’ for, Mikasa? The ball’s not gettin’ any lighter.”

She tosses the ball threateningly into the air with one hand, and catches it with the other.

 “Hold your horses, Jean.”

Connie snorts at the distasteful joke behind you.

Why are you friends with these people.

Before you can voice your concern aloud, Mikasa’s heels dig into the dry ground and she throws her arm back. The ball sails through the air, coming maybe a little too close and - _fuck that hurt._

The overly-well-identified flying object now lies in the hands of the traitor: Connie. Your ear throbs deafeningly from the unexpected impact, and Mikasa attempts to hide her snickers like the asshole she is.

“Strike one.”

Levi’s baritone murmur rings through the park. A hand placed meticulously on his hip, the other hand holding a lit cigarette to his lips. He takes a drag, puffing out small rings of smoke into the air.

“Oh, c’mon Coach-“

“The will be no ‘coming on’ anything, Kirschstein.”

You let out a huff. “That was definitely a foul ball-“

“And you're a foul player. Look kid, you should be happy I’m even letting you back in after that move you pulled at the Titan’s game.”

The team flinches in unison.

“You’re going to have to deal with these unfair calls until you can learn to not punch people in the face.”

“Fine.” You grit your teeth, “I’ll try my best.”

“You know I don’t want your best.”

 Levi flicks ash to the side and waves a hand as to say ‘continue’.

Not punching people in the face is harder than you thought.

 

When you get home from practice, you stumble through the front door like a drunk. Throwing the sweaty bag of clothes onto the floor, you slump into a chair at the kitchen table.

“Hello to you too, Jeannie.” Your mom turns her head, holding a pan of something that smells probably similar to heaven.

All you can do is groan in response.

She laughs like the great mother she is, and places a heaping plate of spaghetti in front of you. It’s steaming hot, with grated parmesan cheese and a basil leaf garnishing those perfectly cooked noodles. You struggle to keep the drool in your mouth. No matter how much she embarrasses and teases you, your mom always makes it up in the end. You wouldn't trade her for the world.

After carefully shoveling the entire plate into your mouth, two spoonfuls at a time, you shove the dishes into the sink. 

“Hey Mommyyyyy-y.”

She turns her head, raising an eyebrow in a manner you’re all too familiar with. “Yes, Jeanbo?”

You lean forward, giving her the best puppy-dog face you can manage.

“Can you teach me French?”

All you get is a blink in response. Waving a hand in front of her face, you click your tongue. “Come on Ma, don’t space out on me now.”

“I’m sorry; I don't think I heard you right.”

“Might wanna get some hearing aids for that.” You point out, “I asked if you could maybe teach me some French. Ya know, ‘the language of our people’ or whatever.”

The look on her face is discomforting. A wide smile accented with the mischievous glint in her eyes makes you wonder if this is a good idea after all. She cups your face in her hands, practically beaming.

“Yes! Oui! Finally the day has come where mon petit garçon accepts his heritage!”

Maybe Rosetta Stone would be the better choice.

 

You wake up on time the next day, if not a little earlier. The reflection in the mirror for once isn't good enough; your hair either too messy or too reserved, and the dark circles that never leave your eyes start to bother you for the first time in years. It’s a national accomplishment when you manage to find clean and (bonus) ironed clothes. You've never cared about your appearance this much before.

This guy is ruining your life.

Mom mutters something about how you don't smell like BO for once, but you ignore her, quickly giving a hug and a kiss and grabbing lunch she set out for her 'mon petit garçon'.

You try not to speed on the way to school.

The library is abandoned compared to yesterday.  Only a few students meandering about, including a freckled figure leaning against the pasty white wall.

“Heeyyyyyyyyyy Frenchie.”

Marco jumps, slamming the book in his hands closed. The cover reads _‘Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary’_. Perfect.

He looks up, eyeing you with a scrutinizing gaze.

Shit, what’d you do?

Is there something on your shirt? Did you wear it inside out? What’s wrong?

You look down, checking the wrinkled fabric. Just the red plaid flannel under some random band t-shirt that you spent 4 hours fixing this morning. No biggie.

“Jean.”

Wow, Marco got really close really fast, and that little squeak definitely did not come from you.

Okay maybe it did but -

“What are you wearing?”

“Ah-uh-what?”

He gestures to all of you.

“The clothes that you are wearing – why are you wearing them?”

“These?” You pluck out the collar, giving him a puzzled look. “What about ‘em?”

“They do not look…” He seems to be searching for the right word, “…good.”

_Well, fuck._

Marco brings a hand to his chin, shaking his head in discontent. There goes your whole morning. And your dignity.

He looks down at his own clothing and lets out a sigh.

“Take off your shirt.”

You pause for a second, letting his words sink in. The corner of your mouth pulls into a smirk, and his entire face turns vermillion. The splash of freckles across his nose disappears completely.

“J-just the first one!”

Fine, but you're not going to be decent about it.

Arching backwards, your fingers tug at the neck of the cotton shirt and slip it off in one fluid motion. You make sure a hint of skin peeks through the buttoned flannel. Marco doesn’t notice.

“Do I get paid for this strip tease or…?”

He unravels the scarf around his neck and takes a step closer. “You talk too much, Jean.”

He’s wrapping the soft fabric around your neck, and you are not breathing because if you inhale then you’ll smell everything Marco. Pop a boner right now and things will get a lot more awkward than they need to be. His knuckles brush against your neck and it sends shivers up your spine and holy hell you’ve got it bad.

Just like that, he’s gone. Back to his stance approximately three feet away from you.

“Much better. You can keep the scarf, it - ah - suits you better."

_I'm gonna have a stroke._

 “So, uh…how was your first day?” You don't speak slowly, but rather pronounce each word as if you worked for Google Translate. It brings out the odd combination of accents in your voice; a mix of common Boston meter and the slightest hint of French. Which, no matter how hard you tried, the way J’s and R’s sounded on your lips was always different from what you wanted.

Thanks Ma.

Marco pauses for a second, mulling over the words.

“Oh! It went well!”

What a fucking cutie.

“People treating you well?”

“Everyone is – ah – very welcoming here.”

“Oh really? Make any new friends?”

“Yes! There is Mina, Thomas, Connie, Sasha, Mikasa, Armin, and of course you -”

Of course you.

_Call 911 please._

You let out a light chuckle, leaning back in the chair and kicking your feet up onto the table.

“So do you want to eat lunch with me - er - us again?” Woops. You flash a wicked grin. “Or have we scared you off already?”

The smile that graces his perfect lips should be illegal. You're about ready to put this freckled angel under arrest.

_And under me._

Stop that.

In that moment, a beam of sunlight peeks through an open window and shines right on that gorgeous face of his.

“I would not miss it!”

 

Lunch couldn't come quicker.

You sit at the table alone, tapping your toes in a rhythm you didn't recognize. The crustless peanut butter sandwich your mother spent so much time on, sits forgotten on the empty table. Thanks to your [over-enthusiastic] biology teacher, Professor Hanji or something, the whole class finished the lesson early. So here you are, looking like a loser with a Star Wars lunchbox.

Okay, well the lunchbox bumps up your cool factor by at least 20%.

Mikasa and Armin finally make their way over, carrying trays full of salad. As if the vegetables here are any better than the play-doh chicken nuggets.

“Hey, it’s the Jaeger Squad.”

Armin sets his plate down, smiling softly. “Minus the Jaeger.”

“And thank sweet baby Jesus for that.”

They ignore you, per usual, and dig into their limp lettuce.

Suddenly Marco’s there, sitting next to you with a small bag of food and a smile wider than most people could manage.

“Whatchya got there, Freckles?”

Ignoring the perplexed look he throws over, you grab the paper sack. Inside lies a baguette roll (typical) and a small container of what looks like Nutella. A plastic butter knife hides in the corner of the bag.

“Oh fuck no.”

“Hm?”

“Nope. No no no no no no no. You cannot just eat bread and that chocolate shit for lunch.”

He’s floundering, mouth opening and closing like he’s about to say something, but decides against it.

“That’s bird food.” You continue, “Here, you can have my sandwich and carrots. I had a big breakfast anyway.” Lies. But like hell you're going to let him eat next to nothing.

Before Marco has a chance to argue, Sasha and Connie cut in, plopping down across from the two of you.

"Ah cannoh bahleev is-"

"Well it is against school codes -”

"Scho wha?!"

Sasha's blowing steam about something, but also blowing chunks of mac'n cheese all the way across the table. Marco winces, taken aback by the obscene sight.

"Yo, Sash, mind not spitting your leftovers all over us? That'd be great, thanks."

She slams her fist down, and Connie gives you a helpless look.

"She uh - she wore a tank top today." He explains, "And the VP told her it was 'inappropriate' or something. Made her change."

"Compflete and utter bullchit!" Finally, she swallows. Mikasa looks about ready to take that baguette and shove it down her throat.

"It is 98 degrees outside and I have to wear a goddamned t-shirt because my shoulders are apparently too sexy for these people. What do I care if some teenage boys have a shoulder fetish?!"

Your eyes roll to the ceiling. Sasha's given this rant about a hundred times, and you know it's unfair, but eventually all her words just run together into some unending nightmare. How Connie deals with this everyday is beyond your comprehension.

"Is Sasha okay?"

Marco leans into the table, trying to get a better look.

"Yeah she's fine. Say, you have a phone right?"

Where did that come from?

The brunette looks thrown off too, and it takes him a second to respond.

"Y-yes. Sasha took me to buy a new phone when I got off the plane."

"Oh sweet, you should totally give me your number man."

Yeah, you went there. Guess there's no coming back.

Surprisingly enough, Marco obliges. He takes your cell and cautiously types in each number, like it might explode if he presses the wrong button.

When he hands it back, everyone's eyes have drifted to you and Marco.

"Gettin' some booty call material, Jean?"

"Oy, how about you shut the fuck up Con."

He sniggers and whispers something to Sasha, who goes red in the face from laughing.

Marco looks as confused as ever."What material..?"

You are so fucking gone you are not even on the same plane of existence as these people.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H ha Ha I don't think I mentioned this was a baseball AU up front but yup here it is. Jean’s gayer for Marco than he thought, Levi’s a beautiful asshole per usual, and yes the team name is the Stallions. The punchline of that joke will come much later. Jean’s such a frickin dweeb trying to learn French for his crush.  
> Also my co-writer is amazing and I hope one day to be as great as her. When I was little and we had those ‘When I Grow Up…’ projects, I said I wanted to be just like youreyestheyglow.  
> I’m so happy this is getting a lot of good feedback, you guys are amazing okay.


	4. Vraiment Tres Important

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean uses Marco's number and Marco is, as usual, confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of the French is wrong feel free to comment or message me on tumblr, I'm working off of a few years of high school French and two semesters of College French and I'm pretty sure the French in here is far from perfect.  
> On the other hand, if you see any English typos or mistakes, they were meant to be there. Most of Marco's speech patterns and his way of hearing things were taken directly from a French exchange student who lived with me for a year, and I did my best to write the way she spoke at the beginning of the year.  
> Enjoy!

**617-XXX-XXXX**

_wanna come to my house tonight_

_for video games_

_con and sash are coming too_

 

It is not a phone number you know.

It has the same three numbers in the beginning as Sasha’s phone number, as her mother’s phone number, as her father’s phone number, and as your new phone number, but it is not theirs, and you do not know whose it is.

 

**Marco**

_I am sorry. Who is this?_

 

Was that mean? Do Americans have a special way of asking people who they are when they text you? Maybe you could have asked Sasha for help. Maybe she knows whose number it is. The person said Sasha was going too. Maybe it is one of her friends who does not want to forget you.

 

**617-XXX-XXXX**

_shit sorry it’s jean_

 

**617-XXX-XXXX**

_kirschtein_

 

**617-XXX-XXXX**

_you gave me your scarf because i looked like i’d crawled out of a hobo’s den_

 

**Jean K**

_wait shit do you know what a hobo is_

 

**Jean K**

_do you know what a den is_

 

You wait a minute for seeing if he will text again.

 

**Jean K**

_are you still there_

 

**Marco**

_Yes I know who you are now! I do not know what a hobo is but every morning Sasha says that she looks like one, so it must be something ugly and smelly. You were not smelly, or ugly, but you were not beautiful either. Is there something a little better than a hobo? I do not know what a den is either. I am still here. Also I would be happy to go to your house with Sasha and Connie, when are they going?_

 

“Maaaaaarcoooooooooo!” Sasha yells.

“Yes?” You yell to her.

“We’re going to Jean’s house in an hour!”

She answers your question. She must know your mind.

 

**Jean K**

_dude did you just call sash ugly she’ll shoot you for that take my word for it she’s a deadshot with a bow and arrow queen of the archery club have you seen her shoot it’s terrifying i’m scared dude i’m scared for my life there’s no way of knowing when she’ll strike_

 

**Marco**

_Jean, it is important that you learn how to use commas._

 

**Jean K**

_how important_

 

**Marco**

_It is really quite important._

 

You look at yourself in the mirror.

You do not look right, you think.

Jean always looks bad when he comes to school. Maybe it is because in his household that is normal? But Sasha does not put any time into her clothing and she doesn’t think bad things about what you wear. Maybe you look fine.

 

**Jean K**

_then i guess i’ll have to learn how to use commas, if you think they’re important_

 

**Marco**

_Periods too, please._

 

You give up. “Sasha!”

“What!”

You find her in her bedroom. “Do my clothes look good?”

She gives you the same strange half-evil half-nice smile that Jean likes to give you. “Why, are you worried?”

“Am I too good-dressed?” You frown. “Well-dressed?”

The strange smile falls off her face. “Oh. You’re not worried that you don’t look good enough, you’re worried you look too good.”

You nod.

Sasha heaves a heavy sigh. “You’re going to start picking out my outfits before school for me.”

“I will want to take you shopping first. You do not have good clothes to choose from.”

Sasha pouts. “Fine. Yes, you look fine. You’re probably overdressed, but it doesn’t matter, Jean’s parents are French and they’ll love you for it.”

You nod. “Also. What is this called?” You imitate her strange smile.

She lifts up an eyebrow at you. “A smirk?”

“Smirk?”

“Sm-ii-rk.”

“That is what I said!”

“No it isn’t!”

“Yes it is!”

“No it’s not!”

You huff. “Fine! It is because I am French!”

“I know, Frenchie!”

You turn and walk out.

 

**Jean K**

_no see that’s where i draw the line no periods man_

 

**Marco**

_A period is just a dot, Jean, not a line._

 

You touch your neck. It feels empty.

You do not think that ‘empty’ is the proper word.

You will have to read your dictionary more often.

 

**Jean K**

_why marco why_

 

**Marco**

_I do not know, I did not make the English language._

 

You pick out another scarf. You were not lying to Jean when you said you had a lot, although the one you gave him was close to your favorite.

It is soft and smooth - silk? Satin?  You do not know which one is which - and it is white with blue flowers on it. Sasha said they were called forget-me-nots. It is your mother’s. She gave it to you before you left.

This one, you will not give to Jean. No one is special enough to get this scarf.

You wrap it loosely around your neck.

It is good.

 

**Jean K**

_why didn’t you_

 

**Marco**

_Because I am French._

 

**Jean K**

_did you make the french language_

 

**Marco**

_Yes._

**Jean K**

_well fuck_

 

**Marco**

_Fuck what?_

 

**Jean K**

_me, if you’re doing the fucking_

 

**Jean K**

_you, if i’m doing the fucking_

 

**Jean K**

_damn i’m smooth_

 

**Jean K**

_smooth as butter_

 

**Marco**

_As smooth as Sasha’s gravel driveway._

 

**Jean K**

_ouch marco that hurts that hurts me_

 

**Marco**

_I would say sorry but I am not sorry for telling the truth._

 

**Jean K**

_that hurts worse_

 

**Marco**

_But I am still not sorry._

 

**Jean K**

_i’m as smooth as your scarf and you know it_

 

**Marco**

_Jean, that is a lie and you know it._

 

“Maaaaaaarcoooooooo!”

You do not think Sasha knows how to say your name correctly.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready to goooooo?”

You look at the clock. “It has not been an hour yet!”

“Are you not ready?”

“Well, I am, but -”

“Then let’s gooooo!”

You sigh and put on your shoes.

 

**Jean**

_no it’s not_

 

**Jean**

_i don’t know anything_

 

**Jean**

_what are you talking about_

 

**Marco**

_You do know things, I’m sure._

 

**Jean**

_i know how to tap that ass B)_

 

“Sasha?”

“Mm?”

She starts the car as you sit in the seat on the other side. “What does a B and a curve mean?”

She stops the car before she leaves the driveway.

“What?”

You show her the phone.

She chokes.

Then she laughs.

She puts her head on the steering wheel and laughs very, very, very loudly.

“He’s such a nerd!” She yells. “He’s such a dweeb! Oh my god!”

“What does it mean?”

“It means he’s as subtle as a bag of rocks hitting you in the face holy shit waittil Connie sees that!”

 _Waittil?_ “Also what ass is he tapping?”

She laughs for another several minutes. “The B with a parenthesis is an emoticon. Like making a smily face. Except that emoticon is a smily face with sunglasses. And he wants to tap your ass.”

Why would he want to gently hit your ass?

Of course he is joking.

 

**Marco**

_Why are the sunglasses there?_

 

**Jean**

_because they’re cool as fuck_

 

**Marco**

_I don’t think they are._

 

**Jean**

_well fuck_

 

**Jean**

_:)_

 

**Jean**

_is that better_

 

**Marco**

_No._

 

**Jean**

_dammit_

 

**Jean**

_i’ll do anything_

 

**Jean**

_;)_

 

**Jean**

_what about that_

 

Sasha turns into a driveway.

“Is this Jean’s house?”

“Yeah.”

 

**Marco**

_Yes._

 

**Jean**

_hell yeah_

 

You and Sasha leave the car.

She does not knock on the door. She just walks in.

Americans are so rude.

“Jean I’m here!” She yells.

A woman comes into the hallway and hugs Sasha. “Bonjour, Sasha!” Her accent! She has a French accent!

“Bonjour, Adele!” Sasha says happily.

“You must be Marco!” She says, turning to you as Sasha leaves you in the hallway and disappears into another room.

“Bonjour, Madame Kirschtein!”

“Ah, bien sur! Tu parle Français!”

You nod. “Oui! Je suis heureux d'écouter la langue encore!” You really are happy to hear French again - Sasha likes to say she speaks it, but she really does not.

“Sasha ne le parle pas, je devine?” She smiles. She must know your mind also; she knows Sasha does not speak French too.

“Non, elle ne parle que Anglais. C’est tant pis.” It is too bad; you could teach her, if she ever spoke French instead of English.

Jean finds you in the hallway. “Marco! You didn’t answer my text!” He looks the way Sasha looks when you tell her she has the fashion sense of a dog.

Adele looks at her son and then at you. She laughs. “Jean me demande que je lui apprend Français. Je pense qu’il me le demande pour qu’il parle a toi.” She smiles at her son. “Si’l te demande - oui, j’approuve.” She pats you on the shoulder and leaves, patting Jean’s head as she passes.

You are confused. It is very sweet that Jean asked her to teach him French so that he could talk to you, but for what did she give her approval? Why would Jean ask if his mother approves?

Jean comes closer to you. “What did she say? She promised to teach me how to speak French, but I haven’t learned a lot yet and she speaks fucking fast.”

“Ah -” Did she want you to tell him?

“Ne lui dit rien, Marco! Rien!” Adele yells.

She answers your question! “Nothing. She said nothing.”

“Mom, you’ll tell me one day, I’ll be waiting!” He turns to you and whines, “Maaaarcooooo!”

“You sound just like Sasha.” Do all Americans do this?

Jean grabs at his heart. “Why would you hurt me like this?”

You laugh. He is very dramatic. “Sasha is not _that_ bad.”

“Hey! Frenchie! I’m very good, thank you very much! Jean! Get you rass over here, I’m not playing marioak art by myself!”

_‘Rass’ and ‘marioak’ are definitely not words. You do not think they are, anyway._

“Do you not want me to wait for Connie?” Jean yells.

“You didn’t wait for me!”

“I didn’t know you were coming yet!”

“Right, and Connie won’t be here for a good hafower -” _no, half-hour -_ “so get in here and play with me! Do you really only have two controllers?”

Jean huffs. He looks at you like he is sorry. _There is a word for that._ “I guess we have to go join her. Shall we?” He bends at the hips and makes a waving motion towards the back of the house with his arms, like he is telling you to go first.

“What does ‘shall’ mean?”

Jean stares at you like you’ve just asked him the question of what does life mean. “Uh. It’s old English. For ‘will’. But nicer sounding. Like - ‘I shall go to the store to get pizza.’ or ‘I shall make pizza.’ or ‘I shall order pizza when you ask.’ or ‘My mom shall order pizza.’ Stuff like that.”

“Are you hungry, Jean?”

“Starving. For pizza. Speaking of which -” his voice lifts up to a yell - “Ma! Guests are here! Can you order pizza now?”

You hear a sigh from the kitchen. “What do you guys want?”

“Pepperoni!” Sasha yells. “Connie likes pepperoni too!”

Jean smil - no, _smirks_ at you. He smirks at you. “I’ve always liked sausage best, personally. Do you have a preference?”

Why does he smirk for that? “I like my pizza plain, I think.”

He does not stop to smirk. “Ma! One large pepperoni, one large half-plain half-sausage!”

“Of course, mon roi!” Adele yells back, but she does not sound like she really believes Jean is her king.

Jean takes your hand and walks down the hallway, as though you cannot walk on your own. “Tell me, Marco, what does that mean? She always calls me that when she’s being snarky.”

“It means ‘my king,’” you say.

“Hm. I like that. I’ll ignore the sarcasm.”

His hand is very warm around yours. You do not understand why he is holding your hand, but you do not think you mind.

He leads you into a large room with a couch, a small table, and a large TV. There are several video game players next to the TV. Sasha is sitting in front of the couch, not on the couch.

You let go of his hand and he waves his hand at the couch. He sits on the floor with Sasha. “Marco. Are you ready to watch a master play marioak art?”

You smile at him. “Sasha, you did not tell me you were a master!”

Jean turns around so he can look at you like he is angry. _Angrily_?

Sasha laughs so hard she chokes. “Marco, you’re the best.”

She starts the game and the name comes up. _Mario Kart_. _Not Marioak art. Oh._

They flip through screens and choose something called a _character_. You have seen that word in your dictionary, but you do not remember it.

They pick a scene and then there is music and a very big 3 on the screen. Then it turns into a 2, and then a 1, and then they are moving very fast and turning at dangerous speeds.

Sasha yells in happiness when she gets a blue thing. Jean yells “Marco save me!” but you do not know what he wants you to do.

And then Sasha hits a button.

“Fuck! Fuck! I hate being in first why am I so damn good at this game fuck fuck fuck me Marco help -” His character gets thrown into the air and Jean yells with no words at the top of his lungs. “Fuck me!”

“Damn Jean you’re thirsty as hell,” Sasha says quietly, but you do not know what losing a video game has to do with wanting a drink.

You hear the front door open.

“Connie I’m beating Jean!” Sasha yells.

“Again?” Connie yells. “Hi, Adele,” he says more quietly. He appears in the doorway after a minute. “I play winner.”

“Fuck you Connie, I didn’t want to play against you anyway,” Jean says grumpily.

You kick him lightly in the side of his stomach. “I thought you were a master?”

Jean snorts like a horse and his shoulders pull forward as he leans toward the TV. “Hell yeah I am.”

Jean wins that round.

Connie laughs at Sasha. Sasha stares at the TV. “I came in _second_!” she whispers.

Jean stands up and runs in a circle around the room with his hands above his head. “Haha! Fuck you, Sasha!” He picks up his controller and hands it to Connie. “You can play the loser. I didn’t want to play against you anyway.” He sits down on the couch next to you.

“You look very…” You frown. “I do not know the word. Happy with yourself.”

“He looks smug,” Sasha says unhappily. “Smug.”

“Smug.” It is a very interesting word. “You look smug.”

He pushes at your leg with his feet. “I _am_ smug. I’m a fucking master at this.”

“You just downwanna play yagain cause you downwanna lose,” Connie says. _Don’t want to. Yagain? Oh. Again. Play again. Two words. Right._

Jean frowns at Connie. “Shut up.”

Sasha starts the new game and picks her character - Princess Peach - before Connie even sees that she has started.

“Princess Peach?” He says askingly. “Really? Princess Peach?”

“I’m a goddamn princess, asshole.”

For a minute you think Connie will reply, but he just smiles and kisses her forehead. “Yes you are.”

Sasha blushes.

You catch Jean’s eye. He moves his shoulders up and down. “Connie tries to catch Sasha off-guard by being nice.”

“No!” Connie yells. You jump, but he is not yelling at Jean - he is yelling at Sasha. “No, nonononono, we are _not_ doing rainbow road don’t you dare pickit don’t you dare I - fuck you!”

Sasha smiles. “Not here, sweetie. Wait until we get home.”

Wait until they get home? For what? To do rainbow road? What is rainbow road?

It is a very rainbow road, apparently. You can see that on the screens.

Jean laughs. “Rainbow road is the hardest. It’s impossible. I’ve seen people actually take so long the game timed out and forced them to quit.”

“You’re usually the person who takes that long,” Sasha mutters as she drives Princess Peach down a hill.

“Shut up, Sasha. Anyway, it’s actually impossible sometimes.”

“What does ‘timed out’ mean?”

“Huh? Oh. Stopped. Took too long so it had to stop.”

You nod. “You use lots of slang phrases.”

Jean frowns. “Do I? Shit, sorry, I’ll try to stop -”

You shake your head. “No, no, do not stop -”

A grin appears on his face and he quietly says “If you say so” and the grin disappears. What is going on?

You continue anyway. He does not make sense sometimes. “Do not stop, you are teaching me good phrases it is necessary for me to know if I should speak English properly.”

One of his eyebrows lifts up. “Maybe you should start with your sentence structure.”

You blush. “What was wrong? I know it is not good, I am sorry - I am trying to get better, but it is difficult to think quickly while I am speaking and -”

He pushes your leg with his foot again. “Dude, dude, don’t worry about it, okay? It’s fine. It’s your second language, that’s more than I ever managed. I just - you don’t sound like the kind of guy who really doesn’t want to use contractions. And you _really_ don’t strike me as the kind of guy who means to misuse verbs. So maybe start from the base up? Go for grammar before slang?”

You pick up his feet and pull his legs straight so his feet are sitting on your legs and he cannot push you anymore. “Okay. But you must correct me, then.”

He smiles at you. “Sure. First of all - most people don’t say ‘must,’ they say ‘have to.’”

You nod. “That is good to know.”

“Also, not _that is_. You can shorten that to -”

You almost throw yourself over him to cover his mouth with your hand. “Attend-toi! Attend - no. Wait! Wait! I know this one! It shortens to -” _That + is = thatis? Thas? No -_ “That’s!”

You smile widely at him. “That’s!”

You can feel him smiling at you - your hand is on his mouth. He reaches up to take your hand off of his mouth. “Yeah, that’s right.”

You watch him for a moment as Connie yells “Fuck!” Over and over again.

Sasha laughs the way the bad animals laughed in _Le Roi Lion_.

You should probably lift yourself off of Jean now.

But there is a problem. You are lying a little bit between him and the couch, and your feet are hanging off the couch, and his legs are on yours and - well, you do not know how to lift yourself up without putting your hands on his stomach.

You bite your lip. “Um.”

Jean laughs. “Are you all right?”

“No.” You try to push yourself up with the hand stuck in the couch, but - no, your hand slips and you fall back down, your head hitting his stomach.

His stomach is _hard_.

Jean laughs even more. “Do you need help?”

“No, I -” You try again, but you slip again, and now your mouth is on his hip and Jean is not laughing anymore. “I am sorry, did I hurt you?” Oh no, you have to try and get off now -

Jean takes a deep breath. “First of all, not ‘I am’, it’s ‘I’m.’ Second of all, no, I’m not hurt, don’t worry about it.” He does not sound normal, though, and you are sure you hurt him.

He leans forward and takes your hands and helps you push yourself up.

He takes his feet off of your legs and pulls them up against his chest.

You must have done something wrong. “Jean? I am - no, wait, _I’m_ \- very sorry, I do not - no - no - _don’t_ \- know why I -”

But Jean smiles at you and it looks like a real smile. “You didn’t, don’t worry. It’s cool, dude.”

Just then, Connie drives off the side of the road and screams with no words in anger as Sasha drives through the finish line. “Ha! I fucking beat you _again_!”

Jean does not - no, _doesn’t_ \- play another game. He just watches while Sasha and Connie play through three other video games.

He talks to you instead of playing.

“You have a sister? Angelique? How old is she? 14? Is she nice to you or is she a bitch? Don’t lie, she’s 14, she’s gotta - oops, got to - be a bitch sometimes. Yeah, you can shorten ‘got to’ into ‘gotta.’ Most words can be shortened somehow, honestly…”

Jean may not be able to speak French, and maybe there are better people to learn English from, but he is - _he’s_ \- nice. He helps you with your English.

By the time the sun gets dark, his feet are on your legs again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun story karkatsthong is actually my favorite person and I'm really really happy I get to write with her  
> also she already started the next chapter so you guys shouldn't have to wait too long


	5. Some Grade A Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean's a giant pissbaby, pass it on.

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no, no no no, ohhh _fuck_.

Your hands are shaking, ragged breaths sounding more like a dying cat’s than a human being’s, and the huge lump in your throat has dropped into the depths of your stomach and- _oh God I’m gonna puke_.

You might be a little nervous.

A little.

Meaning you are neck-deep in this ocean of anxiety, and crying about it is not going to help jack shit. Either you’re drowning alone or you drag Marco down with you.

It’s been exactly three weeks since that day he and the others came over. Three weeks since he made extended physical contact with you. Three weeks since you realized he was more than just some hot piece of ass.

_“I am sorry, did I hurt you?”_

_Yeah, you’re hurting my heart and my dick and everything else._

_Please continue._

 

The dark leather interior of the GTO feels scorching under calloused hands. Morning sun peeks unwelcomely through tinted windows like some creep that calls you best friend and then never leaves you alone. You brush the tips of your fingers affectionately over the rough lining of the steering wheel, gnawing at your lower lip.

“Judy, baby I’m sorry, but I’m in love with someone else.”

The Judge stays silent, save for the faint static of Frank Sinatra’s sultry voice pouring from her speakers.

_“And now, the end is near -”_

“I know, I know…” You pat her gear shift with endearment. “But we can still be friends.”

“ _My friend, I’ll say it clear. I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain -”_

Sighing, the last syllable cracks on your tongue.“What’s the verdict, your Honor?”

_“I’ve lived a life that’s full. I’ve travelled each and every highway -”_

“Over-exaggerator -”

_“And more… much more than this. I did it my way.”_

“Well if you’re gonna be like that then you can fill your _own_ gas tank.”

 

Suddenly the phone in your back pocket vibrates, sending you head-on into the roof of the car and giving you a mild concussion. It almost makes you piss the $200 jeans that Ma bought, but you never wore before in fear of looking like, quote, “a fucking douchebag”.

Turns out they make your ass look downright _fine._

 

**Con-Man**

_hey dude i kno youre probably freakin the fuck out cause ur a little bitch but cmon dont let years of training w the ladies go to waste_

 

Of course Connie knows what’s going on. It’s terrifying how accurately he can read you.

 

**Jeannie Cash**

_you mean mikasa? because from what I remember that didn’t go very well._

 

**Con-Man**

_you let this frenchie change the way u talk and type and how u dress_

_dont compare him to mikasa_

 

**Con-Man**

_i know he means a lot more to you than that_

 

Dammit.

_No, no, no, don’t say that I don’t need reminding._

 

**Jeannie Cash**

_jfc man, just because you and Sash are together now doesn’t make you the love expert._

 

**Con-Man**

_it kinda does_

 

**Con-Man**

_if ya get my drift B)_

 

You wish you didn’t get his drift.

 

**Jeannie Cash**

_get your own emoticon you bald bastard._

 

**Con-Man**

_B)ald B)astard****_

 

**Con-Man**

_now go and slice urself a piece of that marco booty_

 

**Jeannie Cash**

_i’m unfriending you on facebook and irl._

 

Five long minutes pass by before you realize he’s ignoring you on purpose. The clock ticks by menacingly, threatening the first bell that signals the start of class. You are so fucked.

And not necessarily in the way you’d like.

You take a deep breath, relishing the sweet scent of clean leather. You are Jean _motherfucking_ Kirschstein. Ranked six out of the Sina, Rose, and Maria districts for Little League. Ranked number one out of the entire country for best ass. Fellow students trip over their feet in attempts to get even relatively close to you. There’s a reputation here you’ve got to uphold.

Asking Marco out shouldn’t be too hard anyway, right?

 

*

 

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

You were so wrong it hurts, and you’re pretty sure there’s something wrong with your lungs too because you can’t breathe. Maybe internal bleeding or something fatal so you’ll die before you make an ass of yourself.

Although it’s probably too late for that.

 

There he is, the bane of your entire existence.

Sitting cross-legged at the table nearest the exit as he had been since the start of the year, he scratches the point of his freckled nose with a wooden pencil. Your insides do something similar to a trapezist, but instead of there being a net waiting to catch your fall, there’s nothing. A void of emptiness as deep as that trench in the ocean you keep forgetting the name of, even though Mr. Shadis has told you at least eighty times. But seabed terrain is definitely not on your list of priorities right now, nor will it ever be.

You’re standing near the doorway, fidgety hands carefully adjust the buttons on the plaid vest over your nicest white collared shirt.

Here goes nothing.

 

“Hey-uh- hi, Marco.”

The brunette looks up from his usual dictionary (he’s made it to the _S_ ’s, you’re so proud), and just gives you that _smile._ Your own lips quirk up into something similar, but much less attractive you’re sure.

 

“Hi Jean!”

 

You try to say something like “How have you been?” or “What’s crackin’?, but since it’s you and nothing ever works out for the guy with the two-toned undercut, it comes out more like:

“What’s you been crackin’?”

 

Smooth, Kirschstein. Smooth. Smoother than butter that’s been sitting out in the sun and melted into a puddle of useless salty mush.

 

“Cracking? I don’t think I have- No- _I’ve_ been cracking anything… Is that more slang?” Marco’s head tilts to the side, his soft fringe falling out of place and framing those gorgeous chocolate eyes.

 

“Ah- no actually. I just…”

Get it _together_ man.

You grab onto the back of his chair and lean forward, breathing in the essence of fresh mint and roses. Instantly there’s a certain feeling of calmness that settles your jittery nerves. Finally your heartbeat is slowing down a little bit.

Wait no, too much, _too much_.

Aa-and it’s stopped.

Fuck, you’re even in love with the way he smells. Jean Kirschstein is in deep, kids. Chance of survival: 0.2%.

 

“Jean..?”

Right, back to the subject at hand. You breathe in, filling your lungs with enough bullshit to spew that this might actually make sense.

 

“Want to go out this Friday?”

It sounds so nonchalant rolling of your tongue, as if the immense build up of anxiousness hadn’t happened at all. Just a casual question for a casual guy. Yeah. Good. Maybe if you keep telling yourself that you’ll believe it.

The confused expression gracing his angelic features only worsens the feeling in your gut.

 

“Go out?”

 

“I- I was thinking maybe out to dinner? And a movie. Yeah, movies are rad.”

Did you just say rad? _This isn’t the fucking 80’s, oh my god. Just stop, just stop here please._

“I mean, if you _want_ to go out on a date with me. You don’t have to of course-”

A look of understanding hits his face with the force of a semi-truck.

 

“Oh... _oh._ ”

Oh no.

His cheeks flush a bright red, which would have been adorable if not for the sight of pure awkwardness in his wavering demeanor.

 

“Jean, I- I’m flattered but…I do not...I don’t-”

Marco's stuttering matches the pace of your breathing. He can’t find the words, but you already have. They’re stuck in the back of your throat, along with the other obscenities you'd love to shove down someone else's at the moment.

 

"You don't like guys, do you.”

Fuck, is it hot in here, or is the AC just broken?

The freckled boy gives a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck with tensed fingers.

 

“I do like you, Jean. I just don’t...like you…in a _love_ way.”

 _Abort mission, I repeat_ _abort mission._

If you thought it was hard to breathe before, then it’s beyond impossible now. Right hand, slick with sweat, pulls off the backrest of his chair and you take a shaky step back. Your stomach sinks so far it’s probably hanging out of someone else’s asshole.

And the only thing you can think about is how wrong he is.

There are satellites with less gay radio waves bouncing off of them. Or is it gaydio waves? Yeah, definitely gaydio waves. Your own radar’s been eating up these signals like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet. So what did you get wrong?

 

“Ah - okay. I understand. I should probably get to class now, actually...

 

“Wait, Jean-”

 

But you’re already gone, out the library door and off to sulk in homeroom like a real angsty teenager.

 

You didn’t even bother going to lunch.

Mr. Smith gave you permission to ‘study’ in his room, though the entirety of the forty-minute lunch period was spent pouting and watching cat videos on your piece-of-shit phone.

 

**Con-Man**

_dude wtf_

 

Connie just put your thoughts from the last couple of hours into one word and three letters.

 

**Jeannie Cash**

_yeah, i know._

 

No you don't.

 

Baseball practice is full of many unnecessary questions and foul balls, much to your dismay.

It's your turn at the pitch, and it takes all the willpower in the world to not throw the ball right at Connie's dumb analytical face.

 

"Oy, Kirschstein."

_Ugh, what is it this time?_

Your head snaps back, eyeing the older man with annoyance.

 

"What's got your saddle in a twist this time?"

 

"You know, the _team_ name is the Stallions. Not just me."

 

Coach Levi takes a long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke out in short puffs.

"That's not the point. I asked you a question. And I think Springer would appreciate knowing why he's almost been hit in the ballsack twice now."

 

You shrug, quirking an eyebrow at Baldy in mock apology.

"School shit."

 

"Well either flush your 'school shit' down the toilet or shove it back up your ass. There's no crying in baseball.”

*

 

An entire week. Or, school week.

Five days.

Monday through Friday.

That's how long it takes Connie and Sasha to get fed up with your moodiness.

 

You’re curled up on the couch, steaming mug of tea clutched tight in shaking fingers. It’s approximately negative one thousand degrees in your house for whatever reason, but you absolutely refuse to put on any clothing besides boxers. Ma’s busying herself in the kitchen, clanging around the cabinets and making as much noise as physically possible.

Though nothing could cover up the earsplitting sound of your doorbell ringing. Over and over and _over._

“Jean! Door!”

 

“I’m not deaf, Ma.” You let out a disgruntled sigh, shifting the blanket so it covers your bare chest.

 

“Then I’ll assume you’re on your way to get it?”

 

“Yeah, lemme just answer the door half naked. Foolproof, Ma. Your best idea yet.”

The very woman that gave birth to you throws a bruised apple from the counter, hitting right on the bridge of your nose. You wince in pain as stars dance behind your eyes.

Damn her good aim.

 

_“Petit merde.”_

 

“I _heard_ that.”

 

“And Mama is very proud. Now get the damn door.”

 

The noise that comes out of your mouth is nearly inhuman, making Ma roll her eyes in disbelief. You strategically fall off the couch and shuffle towards the door, blanket draped around slumped shoulders. The doorbell rings again, but this time with more urgency.

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” You grumble.

 

But the door is opening before you even get the chance to reach for the handle, and suddenly Sasha and Connie are in your house, dragging _Marco_ along with them

God fucking damn it.

 

“Adele! I hope you don’t mind a little company! Jean and Marco have some _issues,”_ Connie shoves his elbow into the side of your ribs accusingly, “to work out.”

 

“Ah, no problem dearie. Just don’t leave them alone for too long.” The smile in your mother’s voice is obvious, and so is the blush on your cheeks.

Sasha takes you and Marco by the earlobe (which hurts a lot more than it sounds) and tugs you into the nearest room, which just so happens to be the broom closet. She stands in the doorway, hands on her hips and looking a little too proud of herself.

“Neither of you are coming out until you’ve settled this.”

 

“Excuse me,” You growl impatiently, “But _I’ve_ already had my turn in the closet, thank you.”

 

Marco is still too flustered to get it.

 

“Yeah, well maybe you can help _Marco_ get out, too.”

 

“I hope you choke on a pota- “

 

She slams the door shut.

It’s darker than Godiva’s asshole in here.

 

“It’s rather dark.” Marco states.

 

You cough awkwardly to avoid silence.

“I guess.”

 

You’re bad at avoiding silence.

Since your mind went completely blank a couple of minutes ago, the two of you stay quiet, listening to each other’s breathing.

At least, you’re listening to his. He could have fallen asleep for all you know.

“I am sorry.”

Marco’s voice sounds rougher than usual, as if the life had been sucked out of it.

Fuck, that’s probably your fault.

 

“No, don’t be.” You let out a muffled sigh between clenched teeth, “I’m just being an asshole about it. Because apparently I can’t handle being turned down without whining like a huge bitch baby and I’m the one who should be sorry for laying our friendship on the line like that and- “

 

“We’re still friends?”

 

You can’t see his face, but he might be looking up now.

“Of course,” There’s a tight feeling in your throat, “Of course we are. Unless, you don’t want to. Which I’d completely understand, I mean there’s a reason not many people talk me- “

Marco cuts you off again, but this time it’s not with his words.

He reaches around your shoulders, pulling in close. You catch a hint of roses again, and instantly sink into his embrace.

 

“I’m happy to be your friend, Jean.”

 

Yeah, being friends might be difficult.

You are so head over heels that both your head and your feet have somehow simultaneously found their way further up your ass than any dick could hope to go. Taking the phrase ‘go fuck yourself’ to a whole new level.

But, friends is a good place to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, I've got finals coming up and I've just been really busy with studying and trying to make money for upcoming cons and these are all just excuses I'm just trash that takes forever to write.


	6. Je Ne Suis Pas Homosexuel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumb dweebs do dumb dorky things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> karkatsthong's pitched-down version of [Dark Horse,](https://soundcloud.com/turntechshithead/dark-horse-pitched-down-katy) which is way better than the original  
> [Je Pense a Toi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B92A5IcL0FI)  
> [Fly Me to the Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtFBRJFN3p8)  
> Enjoy!

**Marco**

_You’re coming to pick me up right?_

 

**Jean K**

_hell yeah, on my way now._

 

**Marco**

_Do not text while you’re driving._

 

**Marco**

_*Don’t._

 

He doesn’t text back.

You sigh at your phone. He’s not texting so that when you get in the car he can say “of course I was not texting while driving I would not put darling Judy in danger like that.”

You should find this annoying. Really, Jean’s inability to admit that he does anything wrong should be very irritating.

But you really cannot - _can’t_ \- wait to get into the car, the judge named after the judge Sasha’s mom likes to watch in the afternoons, so that Jean can pat the wheel and tell you he was not - _wasn’t_ \- texting while driving. He probably wasn’t - _wasn’t - wait, you had it right -_ texting and driving at the same time, not really. He was probably at a stop light. He will - _he’ll_ \- probably tell you this if you tell him you know he’s lying.

You know Jean very well. You know him better than you know your own family, and you’ve only known him for a few weeks.

You had no idea he liked you. Not like _that_. You noticed that he was nervous, a little over a week ago, when he put lots of effort into his clothing and had used slang words that he had not explained. You could tell he was nervous, but you didn’t know why, and it was scary. You know everything about Jean, but you didn’t know _that_. That he liked you. Like that. You knew he was _homosexuel_ , of course, but for you?

You go to sit by the door. Jean will be here soon.

“Maaaaarcoooooo!” Sasha yells from her room.

“What?” You yell up the stairs.

“You have a date with Jean soon right?”

“Sasha, I am - I’m - going over his house, it’s not a date.”

“Playdate then. Tell Adele I said hi, okay? I love her more than my mom loves me.”

“Go live with her, then, see if she feeds you properly,” Sasha’s mom yells from the kitchen.

“Love you, mama!” Sasha sings, and her voice is followed by Sasha herself, bounding down the stairs and running into the living room, presumably to hug her mother.

You hear Judy before you see her, the music pounding out of open windows in a celebration of the not-seasonably warm weather.

“I’m leaving, Mrs. Braus,” you yell behind you as you walk out the door.

“Marcoooo!” Jean yells.

You grin at him as you slide into the passenger seat. “Hello, Jean.”

You were so scared, two days ago, when Sasha and Connie had dragged you out of the house, yelling that you and Jean needed to make up. You had been absolutely certain that by turning him down you had lost his friendship. According to Sasha, you had moped around all week - but you had lost your best friend! You - love Jean, even if you don’t _love_ him, and you had thought that you would never talk to him again. He had avoided you at lunch, in first period, before school and after school, and you knew because you’d tried to find him and he wouldn’t let you. You didn’t want to lose him as a friend and he was slipping away from you and you couldn’t do anything about it. Of course you were going to mope.

Jean shifts the car into drive. “I have no idea what we’re gonna - going to, sorry - do today.”

“It’s too good outside to stay inside,” you say, glancing at the clear blue sky.

“Too _nice_ out,” Jean corrects gently. “It’s too nice out to _live_ , really. It’s hotter than satan’s asshole outside.”

“Jean, it is only 31 degrees outside.”

He looks at you so fast he must have hurt his neck. “Are you feeling alright? Did the heat get to you? Should I take you to a hospital? Oh god are you dying? Is -”

“No! Degrees _celsius_ , Jean, not - the F one.”

“Fahrenheit?”

“Faa-rin-height.”

“Yeah. Well, whatever the celsius is, it is 89 degrees out and that is too fuckin’ hot.”

“That is not really as hot as Satan’s _derriere_.”

“His what?”

“His - butt.”

Jean snorts. His laugh is loud, happy, and beautiful.

You smile when you hear it. After all, you almost lost it.

When Sasha shoved you into a closet with him, Jean was protesting loudly and you thought he just did not want to be near _you_ , and when Sasha shut the door and he was silent you were absolutely sure he did not - _didn’t_ \- want to be near you, and you couldn’t see his face in the dark and didn’t know what he was thinking. He certainly wasn’t laughing. He was not happy.

“Why can you say it in French but not English?” Jean gasps.

You can feel your face turning red. No, there’s a word for that, you remember reading it in your dictionary. It’s - B- B-something. Blushing. You can feel your face blushing. “I don’t know. French is much prettier. It does not sound so -” you hunt for the word - “ _explicit_.”

He laughs so hard he stops breathing.

When you were in the closet with him, you could hear him breathing, but he was not - _wasn’t_ \- breathing calmly, not until you’d been standing there for a few minutes and his breathing slowed to match your own breath. You didn’t want to say anything. You didn’t want him to kick you out of the closet and abandon you.

You’d apologized.

He had cut you off before you could say anything else.

And then he had - _he’d_ \- said that you were still friends and you had been shocked into stillness for a moment. He had been avoiding you so pointedly you had thought he hated you.

“Marco, you’re great, okay?” Jean says when he can breathe again. “Like - damn. I’m glad I’m friends with you.” And then his face drops and he glances at you with big eyes. “Just - not - I -”

You know what he’s trying to say, and you get the same urge you did two days ago: you want to hug him. He just - he needs a hug, and you need him to know that everything is okay, that he has nothing to apologize for, that there is nothing you have a problem with. Your English might not be very good, but you had not needed to say anything. Instead, you had hugged him, and he had practically fallen against you, wrapping one arm around you while the other held up the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. You had happily held him against you; you had missed him. A lot. More than you missed your family.

You are thinking that you do not want to go home. You want to stay here with Jean.

“Jean, it is okay. I know you just mean as friends.”

He looks at you and you can see that he is relieved, but there is something else there, something that should not be there. Disbelief? What is there not to believe? You must not have noticed him properly. You should take more care to notice what he is feeling.

“Ok. Good. Just checking. Making sure you know. Don’t want any misunderstandings or anything. Y’know. Do you wanna listen to music?”

He is flustered. He didn’t correct his slang.

You want to tell him that it is okay, that you know what he meant and aren’t bothered by it. You wanted to tell him that two days ago, but Adele had swung the closet door open - “Jean why are you in the closet now I thought we were over this!” “Jean, did you spend a lot of time in the closet when you were little?” “Almost permanently until I was nine. I had a thing for Harry Potter, see, and - dammit mom can’t you close the door!” “You don’t sleep in there anymore!” - and that had been that. Jean had gone upstairs to put on a shirt, and the four of you had played video games for three hours straight. This is the first time you are hanging out with him in a week, and you do not know how to tell him that he isn’t bothering you.

So you just nod. “Music would be nice.”

He twists the volume button and begins singing almost immediately, like he knew what song was playing. “ _Boy, you should know what you're falling for. Baby do you dare to do this? Cause I’m coming at you like a dark horse_ …”

You know this one. “ _Are you ready for, ready for, A perfect storm, perfect storm, Cause once you’re mine, once you’re mine, There’s no going back…_ ”

Jean is looking at you. He’s trying to pretend that he’s not, but he is. He is not smiling, just watching you. It is strange. “Yes?”

Jean’s eyes snap back to the road. “You… your accent, this song sounds way better with a French accent.”

You grin as you think.

 _Perfect_.

“ _Quand rien ne va, Je pense à toi. T'es mon soleil, Plus jamais froid. Le monde est gris, Il ne sourit pas ! Mon truc à moi, Je pense à toi._ ”

His mouth is hanging open a little bit.

A glob of saliva slips from his open mouth. “Shit!”

You grope for a tissue box on the floor, but you are laughing too hard to search, and by the time you hand it to him, he already has one in his hand. There must be a second one inside his door. His face is bright red. “I - I don’t even know - I’m - shit.” He pulls into his driveway. “I’m trash, I -”

You do not even think. He parks the car and you reach over to hug him. He is tense for a moment, but his hand presses down on his seatbelt buckle and it snaps away so he can lean into you. He only stays there for a moment, but you notice how soft he feels even though you know he plays baseball and has muscle. You can feel his warm breath against your shoulder.

But then he pulls away, and you feel cold. It is warm outside, you shouldn’t feel cold. Maybe you are getting ill.

Jean pushes the door open and - disappears with a _thud_ and a _splash_.

“Jean?” You cry, pushing your door open and running around to see Jean lying in a puddle where his driveway dips into the grass, his foot trapped in the seatbelt. “Jean, are you alright?” You ask, pulling his foot out of the seatbelt and helping him stand.

He sighs heavily, like he has been martyred. “I need a shower.”

You want not to laugh.

You laugh anyway.

It is not your fault, though. He just looks so - so - _wet_. His entire shirt is soaking, his hair is dripping, and the water is slowly spreading down his pants. And it is not clean water, either; he is dirty and there is grass on his shirt.

You cover your mouth with your hand, you try to smother your laughter, you really do, but he looks so absolutely done with absolutely everything that you just can’t hold it in.

He looks at you, and you almost apologize, but a piece of grass falls from his hair onto his nose and you laugh so hard you stop to be able to breathe.

Jean brushes the grass off his nose. “Dude, you okay there? Any time you wanna - want to - take a breath, you can stop laughing.”

You smile apologetically at him as you try to stop to laugh. “I am sorry, but - you look -”

Jean grins, though, so he must not be angry. “I look like a dumbass.”

“No, no,” you say hurriedly. “You -” You give up. “Yes, you do. A little.”

Jean laughs, grabs your hand, and tugs you inside. “I don’t think I’ve needed a shower this badly since I was five and thought it was a good idea to push my older brother into a pile of weeds - he just grabbed me and tossed me in instead, I had so many ants on me I felt like an ant farm -”

“Bonjour, Marco!” Adele yells from the living room. “Jean, don’t bring him up to your room, there could be cockroaches in there and no one would ever know.”

“I cleaned a little!” Jean protests. “Besides, I have to shower, so he’s gonna need something to do, and the computer is in my room!”

“There’s a computer downstairs, too!”

“What’s he gonna do on your computer, taxes?”

“What’s he gonna do on your computer, browse through your porn stash?”

Jean turns bright red and glances back at you. “Ma!”

“Jean, what is porn?” You ask. You do not remember that word in your dictionary; it must be slang. It certainly cannot mean what you _think_ it means.

“Ma, he doesn’t even know what that _is_!”

“Oh yes he does, he just doesn’t know the English word! Le porno, Marco! La mot est exactament la même!”

Oh god, it means exactly what you think it means.

“Jesus, Ma!” Jean screeches. “His face is so red it looks like someone painted it!”

“Yours is too,” you point out.

He buries his face in his hands. “I didn’t ask for this!”

You take a deep breath. This is not a problem. You do not need to be having of a problem right now. “You need to take a shower. I will just - not go on your computer.”

“Marco, there isn’t - I don’t download anything, I just stream it, and Chrome has an incognito window, there’s literally no way -”

“ _Jean_.”

“Right. Right. Okay. Right.” He mumbles to himself as he climbs up the rest of the stairs.

His room is not very clean, but it is not very messy, either. Jean kicks an entire pile of clothes out of the way as he crosses his arms over his torso and pulls his shirt over his head.

He has a very nice back, you notice. You can see his muscles moving under his skin as he tosses the shirt to the side and turns up the volume on the little radio next to his bed until it hums just loudly enough for you to hear it. He turns to you. “Okay, so I know I said I use the incognito all the time but sometimes I forget so don’t type in anything beginning with an ‘x’ okay? What are you - oh.” A very large grin spreads across his face. There is a word for the way he - _predatory_. His grin is predatory. “What, you haven’t seen them before?”

You stare at the silver piercings in his nipples. You know your face is red. You think maybe your entire body is turning red. You do not like the way your stomach is tightening.

Jean leans towards the wall. “You haven’t, have - fuck!” He yells as he misses the wall and falls into a pile of clothing.

You laugh until tears come out of your eyes as you watch him struggle to get back up, tossing a shirt off his legs as he does.

“I’m just gonna go take a damn shower now,” he grumbles.

“Don’t trip on your way in!” You call after him when you get your breath back.

“Don’t be a douchebag,” he yells back before you hear the bathroom door close. The water starts up soon after the door closes, almost covering the sound of the radio.

Americans have strange curses. _Douche_ just means _shower_ to you. You were so confused the first time Sasha called you a showerbag.

You dry your eyes and look around Jean’s room. His floor is a mess, but his room looks as messy as it does because his walls are messy, too.

The only free wall is covered entirely in paper.

You move closer, stepping carefully over piles of clothing on your way, and realize that they are all drawings. Some of them are just sketches, some of them are entire pages of tiny sketches, but some of them are colored in, and some of them look like they were drawn on a computer and printed out.

Some of the sketches are just baseball things - bats, balls, bats and balls arranged to look like penises. There are several sketches of his house, from different angles with different lighting. There are drawings of flowers and a garden, some of them are sketches but some of them are colored with the water paint. There are a few Harry Potter drawings, but most of them look old, and they are not very good. You study them anyway, because Jean must like them if he hangs them on his wall.

There are drawings of enormous human-like creatures, but they have no skin and large mouths and no genitals. They glare at you angrily, like they are going to eat you, and one smiles at you like it is going to enjoy to eat you.

You move towards a small folded piece of paper in the corner, about as high as Jean could have put it if he stood on his fingers of the feet. It is not taped to the wall, just stuck behind another piece of paper, and you gently pull it free.

Maybe you should not look at it, if he had it hidden.

But what could it be that is so bad? You do not judge him for anything.

Still. He deserves his privacy.

But your finger are already unfolding the paper, which looks like it has been folded many times already.

Your breath stops.

Your own face sits on the paper.

It is colored with the water paint, but it is not finished yet. In the drawing, you are looking over your shoulder so only the right side of your face is seen. Your face glows somehow, in the picture, as you smile, your neck painted in strong lines, your freckles tiny dots scattered across your cheekbone.

You have never really thought you were ugly. You always knew there were people who didn’t like your freckles or your haircut. But you liked yourself, for the most part. You thought you were passable.

Jean makes you look beautiful.

You touch your face and you have to wonder if it is really the same one Jean drew.

You hear the water shut off in the bathroom.

Jean shouldn’t know you saw this. You quickly refold the paper and tuck it back into place before you wander to the other side of the wall, staring at a picture of one of the large no-skin creatures sitting on top of another one. The one on top has dark hair and looks like it is about to rip apart the blonde-hair one on the bottom.

You turn around as Jean comes in behind you.

Your entire face heats up.

He has a towel wrapped around his hips. That is _all_ he has on.

Now that you are not entirely shocked by the piercings, you notice that although he is thin, he has quite a lot of muscle.

You should stop noticing these things. You are not gay, after all, and you don’t want to make Jean uncomfortable. Even if he does not actually know you are noticing these things. You still should not.

Jean’s eyes flicker to the picture of you, sitting in its place in the corner, and he relaxes a little bit. “Been looking at my shitty drawings?”

“They are not shitty!” You say a little too fast. “I love them, they’re beautiful!”

He looks at you like you have lost your mind. “Most of them are dicks.”

“I -” They really are not _beautiful_. They are nice looking, he is a very good artist, but _beautiful_ only really applies to the picture of you. Which you were not supposed to see. “Well, you are a very good artist. I like the flowers a lot. They are very pretty.”

He stands up a little straighter. “Thanks.”

You are very dumb, sometimes.

You should have known that he liked you.

You just did not think to interpret his actions that way.

Maybe it is mean of you to be friends with him when he still likes you. You do not want to give him false hope.

But you look at his familiar face, his sharp eyes and pointed nose and his soaking wet hair and his strong chin and the bead of water dripping down his cheek and you do not think you can be that nice. You cannot stop being friends with Jean.

And then a familiar song comes over the radio, and Jean’s face lights up. “It’s-!”

You cannot help to laugh. He just looks so happy. “Yes!”

And then he lunges for the radio, turns up the volume, and bows to you. “May I have this dance?”

“What?” You squeak. “I - yes, but -”

He grabs your hand and wraps his other arm around your waist and begins waltzing with you.

“ _Let me see what spring is like, On a-Jupiter and Mars. In other words, hold my hand. In other words, baby, kiss me…_ ”

Jean cannot dance, he cannot dance at all, but you cannot dance either, so your waltz turns into lots of swaying and dramatic large steps across the room, Jean practically carrying you over piles of clothes and tugging you against him when you nearly slam into his bed. He sings the whole song, grinning so hard you are surprised he can sing, somehow managing to be louder than your laughter. During the part with no words, he lifts your arm above your head and lets you spin around until you get dizzy before pulling you back to him just in time for the final stanza: “ _Fill my heart with song, Let me sing for ever more. You are all I long for, All I worship and adore…_ ”

Jean’s voice rises with Frank Sinatra’s as the end of the song nears. “ _In other words. In other words. I. Love.”_ Suddenly, Jean’s supporting arm disappears - no, it doesn’t, it just moves backwards. He’s dipping you. You hang on to him, your arm wrapped tightly around his neck, as he whispers the last word, “ _you_ ,” much more quietly than the rest of the song.

You stare up at him. He is very close.

He licks his lips. They are probably dry after all that singing, but they do not look dry, not slick with his saliva -

A drop of water falls from his hair onto your forehead. You grin, Jean laughs, and he sweeps you back up onto your feet.

“Okay, I’ve got to get dressed, I have no idea how this towel stayed up this long but if it stays up much longer I’ll have to start believing in God and that’s not cool so -” He drops the towel as he walks towards his dresser.

 _Oh god_.

You are not noticing his butt. You are not noticing his butt. You are paying no attention to his butt. His well-formed gorgeous derriere is neither well-formed nor gorgeous.

Jean smirks at you over his shoulder. “What, it’s just my ass, I’m not asking you to give me a blowjob or - oh my god your face just turned so red it could compete with a goddamn fire truck.”

You turn to face the wall. You are not thinking about his butt. You are straight, you are straight, and the only reason you think anything of his butt is because girls have butts too and you like girls.

“Maybe I spend too much time in the baseball locker rooms,” Jean says, but it does not sound like an apology, it sounds like an excuse. “We all just get ass-naked in there, no big deal. A butt is a butt.”

You open your mouth, but you do not know what to say, so you just shut it again.

Jean is so strange.

“We’re going outside, right? I’ve got something to show you, anyway. You don’t care if I go shirtless, right? It’s too hot for shirts. You can turn around, by the way, my good bits are covered.”

“ _Good bits_ ,” you mutter as you turn around. “What are you wearing?”

He looks down at the ugliest shorts you have ever seen in your life. “Like I said, it’s hot out. Let’s go!”

You must not move fast enough for him. He really does enjoy taking your hand and pulling you around like a child.

You pass Adele on your way out. “Jean, where are you going?”

“Outside, I’m showing Marco something.”

“What thing? There’s nothing outside but a garden and a few chairs!”

“A garden?” You say hopefully. A garden!

Jean glares at his mother. “Well, now he knows!”

“You have a garden?” Sasha does not have a garden, you have not seen one since you left France.

“Not much of one,” Adele says. “Most of the plants are dead now. I’ve got some mums in there, but they’re going to have to go soon, too. Weeds are still growing, of course. But yeah, there’s a garden.”

“Let’s go!” You say as you tug Jean out the door.

You forgot how hot it was outside.

It is really quite hot outside.

Very hot.

You huff as you let go of Jean’s hand to pull off your shirt.

“Oh? Is it maybe a little bit hot outside?” Jean says snarkily.

“Yes, yes it is,” you retort as you fold your shirt carefully and drape it over a chair. “Where is the garden?”

“Jesus, one-track mind,” Jean mutters. “It’s around the - what’s that?”

“What is what?”

He pokes the right side of your ribs. “That!”

“Oh.” You look down at the tattoo. A garden of lilies, roses, forget-me-nots, sunflowers, and wisteria covers most of the right side of your torso, from the front of your right ribs to a few inches to the right of your spine. “It’s - ah - I like flowers.” It is not _really_ a lie, even if it is not actually why you got the tattoo, but Jean does not need to know about all the time you passed gardening with your mother before she got sick, before her brain tumor began to take over. He does not need to know that these are her favorite flowers, or that they are your way of keeping her with you. If she dies while you are here, at least you will have this much of her with you.

“Marco?”

“Yes?”

“If… if you ever need to talk, I’m here, okay?”

He looks worried. You do not want him to look worried. You want to hug him again.

But you think that if you hug him right now, you might cry.

So you just nod. He watches you for a few more seconds until you smile, and pulls you around to the garden.

Adele was right, there is not much left, but you can see by the shape that it is the garden that Jean drew. And she was right again: the weeds are still growing.

Jean bends down, grabs one at the base, and tugs it out of the ground. You almost hiss at him. “No, no, like this,” you say, and you bend down to find a weed. You use your fingers to dig the dirt away from the roots a little, without disturbing the dirt around it or any seeds in here, and then pull it out. “My mama says that this keeps the roots from being left behind. The more roots there are, the faster it will grow back.”

Jean does not answer, and when you look at him, he is biting his lip. He still looks anxious.

“Jean?”

He takes in a deep breath and smiles. “Got it.”

He helps you weed until the garden is clean.


End file.
